


towards the door we never opened

by depthsofgreen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-finale fic. Will and Hannibal negotiate their new shared life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	towards the door we never opened

Hannibal hums as water beats down his face and back, the hot-wet smell of mingled blood and steam thick in the air. He tilts his chin down and blurrily opens his eyes when he feels the scratchy drag of a washcloth at his neck. The nerves there tingle and come alive as Will scrubs roughly back and forth, wrist moving deftly. 

Hannibal blinks and Will comes into clearer focus, dark strings of hair hanging wetly down his face, most of the blood already washed off his body and staining the wet tile beneath their feet. Will stands naked before him in a watered-down pool of someone else’s blood. It’s a familiar sight now, but Hannibal has to carefully re-process it every time, always disbelieving.

It’s become a ritual for them, one undiscussed and delicate. They kill, then wash themselves off together. It’s as if every shared murder must be anointed with touch and water after the first. Hannibal had not questioned it when Will had followed him into the shower with mysterious purpose the second time around, and he’s disinterested in questioning it now, with Will’s thumb on his collarbone and the steady bursts of his breath echoing off white walls.

With Will’s hands on his shoulders, Hannibal lets himself be turned around. Will forcefully rubs at a numb spot on the small of Hannibal’s back before dropping the washcloth, seemingly satisfied. 

Hannibal turns his head over his shoulder and watches Will step out, legs graceful and skin pink from the scalding water.

Hannibal lingers a few moments longer, recording it all: the pale pinks of Will’s skin matching the pool of water circling the drain. The tingling sting of every place Will scrubbed Hannibal clean. He breathes deeply, one final savoring inhale, before turning the water tap with a squeak. He steps out, towels himself off, and is unsurprised to find Will gone.

Dressing quickly and heading downstairs, Hannibal finds Will on their couch, his pajama-clothed leg draped over his knee. He sits and delicately sips at a glass of red wine. 

Hannibal takes a seat next to him, where Will hands him his glass. Hannibal accepts it, the wet inside of his bottom lip brushing the subtle smudge of Will’s before him as he sips. The wine is cheap, far too vinegary for Hannibal’s palate, but he swallows it down dutifully. Will is always reminding him how details like wine snobbery had gotten him caught last time. Hannibal has given up a lot.

Hannibal hands the glass back to him, throat and body warming as Will takes another sip. Will lowers the glass to his lap, and Hannibal can tell he’s readying himself to speak. Hannibal watches his jaw clench, curious. 

“Why do you never touch me in the shower?” Will does not look at him as he asks it.

Hannibal considers the question in silence, realizing he doesn’t have an answer. The joint post-kill shower had been a ritual of Will’s initiation, so Hannibal had let him take the lead from there.

“Would you prefer it if I touched you?” 

Hannibal stares at Will, unblinking. 

“I wouldn’t mind it if you did, is all,” Will says after several sustained seconds of silence. 

Will brings the glass up to his lips once more before turning to face Hannibal. His lips are stained purple from the merlot, and Hannibal feels, as ever, a thrill at the sight of him. 

“I will make a note of it.”

Hannibal can feel his mouth quirk up as he takes the glass from Will’s hand without awaiting invitation, playful. 

Will laughs. Hannibal allows the sweet ringing sound of it to overwhelm the too-sour wine in his mouth.

Will places the palm of his hand on Hannibal’s knee, tender, like he’s making a decision. Hannibal shifts the glass to his left hand, dropping his right over Will’s. He rubs Will’s middle knuckle, admiring the hard bone and the lightly calloused skin stretched over it. He thinks of how often Will must have fantasized about bringing these knuckles to Hannibal’s face, bestial and bloody. 

“Do you still think about killing me?” Hannibal asks, apropos of nothing Will can recognize, keeping his gaze lowered to where his fingertip is circling Will’s knuckle. 

Will curves his hand up, pressing it tighter against Hannibal’s palm. Hannibal watches his bones flex between the spaces of his own fingers, transfixed. 

“I think that’s behind us,” Will answers, voice fond. Hannibal’s eyes flick up to Will’s face, the scarred side twisting wryly. “But never say never.” 

Hannibal laughs, delighted, and traces his finger down Will’s slim wrist.

***

Hannibal enjoys it, touching Will. He always has. They stand in the shower, naked and blood-drenched and changed again, and Hannibal feels dizzy with the possibility of it, now that permission to touch has been given.

Will is eyeing him expectantly, red-smeared lips parted. He wants Hannibal to touch him. He’s so beautiful and open that Hannibal’s breath hitches, the tightness in his chest stronger than the aching in his limbs and the shallow bullet graze at his side. 

It’s delicate, this situation. Hannibal wants more than Will is probably willing to give, and they are both aware of this. This, Hannibal knows, is at least partly why he’d never touched him on his own. This is why Will had to ask.

Hannibal picks up a washcloth and presses it to Will’s rounded shoulder, scrubbing gently. The white of the washcloth bleeds red, Will’s skin clearing. Hannibal allows his bare thumb to brush over the old bullet scar sitting on Will’s shoulder. It’s raised and stiff, the skin around it soft.

Will’s eyes are closed, his sharp jaw curved upward. Red-ringed drops of water gather there, then fall. Hannibal makes quicker work of washing Will off, hand moving across his chest and over to his other shoulder. The forceful stream of water hitting him has already washed much of the blood off, but Hannibal rubs at him anyway, down his torso, then lower, over that long scar that still so menacingly resembles a smirk. Will inhales deeply, a stuttering sound, and Hannibal drops the washcloth entirely to run bare fingertips along the smooth hairless rise of it. He admires his own handiwork, the tidy line of it. Even grief-stricken and mad with fury, Hannibal had been so careful. 

Hannibal’s eyes drop unbidden to the limp hang of Will’s cock. His fingers do not move from his scar.

Will’s eyes remain closed, but he must sense the shift in Hannibal’s attention. He breaks the moment to pick the dropped washcloth up, stepping backward to allow Hannibal to catch more of the water stream. 

Hannibal doesn’t require too much work, most of the blood splattered across his side his own. Will gently runs the cloth over the cut, nodding. It shouldn’t require stitches. Will puts the cloth back down and tilts his face up slightly to meet Hannibal’s gaze. His eyes are bright. Hannibal can only imagine how hungry he must look. 

They step out together, toweling off. Will places some gauze and tape over Hannibal’s wound and leaves to dress and head downstairs. 

When Hannibal joins him, clean in a cashmere sweater and loose-fitting pants, Will rests his cheek on Hannibal’s shoulder, breaths coming heavy.

Neither of them say a word all night.

***

Will’s hands are wet in Hannibal’s hair. 

Hannibal isn’t altogether sure what they’re doing in the shower together. There’s no blood, there isn’t even any sweat. They had failed to kill their target tonight.

They’d been close, deliciously close, had him backed and cowering, injured on the floor. Hannibal had a linoleum knife in hand and had looked over to Will, awaiting that throbbing-electric rush that always came when their eyes met over the ailing figure of a man about to meet his death. It never came. Will’s eyes were soft, pleading. His own knife was loose and down-turned in his hand.

Hannibal had been surprised, but accepting. He’d pocketed his knife and stepped over the prone figure he’d been sure he’d be tasting soon. The man would live to see another day. He had Will to thank.

And now Will’s hands are in his hair, fingering hard soapy circles across his scalp, and Hannibal is not at all sure of anything.

Will has been evading eye contact. There’s no self-consciousness in it, only stubbornness. He reminds Hannibal forcibly of the man he’d met all those years ago, hiding resentfully behind his eyeglasses. Hannibal feels proud and frightened and defensive all at once. 

Will’s hands are still in his hair. Hannibal isn’t sure what will happen when they’re not.

As it turns out, very little happens when Will’s hands finally retreat. He rinses them and lathers himself up, all the while refusing still to look at Hannibal.

Will quirks an eyebrow up at nobody or nothing in particular as he steps out. Hannibal does not immediately follow him. He stands in the shower for a long stretch of time before stepping out, thoughts a dizzying swirl of shadows, music, and vibrant color as he mentally begins construction on the hallway in his memory palace that he has no doubt he will need to devote to tonight’s proceedings.

When he joins Will downstairs on the couch, his skin is tender, overexposed to the scalding water. His mind is thrumming. He clasps his hands in lap and cocks his head at Will, who is still very determinedly not looking at him. 

“We didn’t kill him,” Hannibal says aloud. It’s a question.

“No,” Will offers. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

“You didn’t want us to kill him,” Hannibal continues, his stare more penetrating than his words could ever hope to be.

“No,” Will repeats again. His voice is flat, skin unflushed, eyes elsewhere. Impossible to read.

“He’ll kill again,” Hannibal’s tone is matter-of-fact, not accusing.

“I know.”

Will still does not look his way.

“Why him? Why did he stay your hand when none of the others have?” 

Will exhales. It’s not quite a sigh, but it’s close. He stands up and pours himself a glass of wine. He sips it as he walks over, then hands the glass to Hannibal before sitting back down.

Finally, he looks at Hannibal. His expression is one of curiousity. Part playful, part sinister. Hannibal takes a sip of the wine and does not taste it. His eyes do not leave Will’s.

“Something in the way his face changed,” Will extends, tentative. Hannibal offers him the glass but Will shakes his head, face dropping down to his own lap. “He reminded me of Wally. Just for a fraction of a second.”

Hannibal swells with something dangerous. His lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out. He regrets not killing the man, now.

Will’s mouth is curved, the ghost-white scar etched across his cheek curving with it. His hands are steady, purposeful and clasped together on his lap. Will always had enjoyed his cruelties. He always had enjoyed his rejections, however subtle.

Hannibal stays quiet, processing. He feels unmoored, blinking quickly, a starry universe of new and indeterminate futures blossoming open behind his eyelids. He hears the distant echo of crashes in his palace, rooms wrecking apart as new ones crop up elsewhere. The very floor beneath him shifts imperceptibly. 

Hannibal is genuinely unsure how much time has passed since either of them last spoke. 

“How does that make you feel?” Will asks.

Will is eyeing him again with a slanted gleam. He’s amused, Hannibal realizes. He hears and feels still more chaos in his head, fingers trembling.

“Unsure,” Hannibal’s response comes at last. Clipped, but not curt. It’s honest, laid bare.

“Unsure about...me? You?” Will’s head tilts slightly. His eyes are hard but filled with nuanced depths of light and color, like crystal. “Us?”

“All of those things and more. An uncertainty that’s all-consuming.”

“Does it anger you? All-consuming uncertainty?” Will’s eyes are softening again, glimmering lights rising to the fore.

“No. If anything, I’ve missed it,” Hannibal breathes. It comes out lower than he’d meant it to, sentence streaming out in a hot pulsing whisper like a confession.

Will stares at him with an intensity Hannibal hasn’t experienced since the night of The Dragon. The yellow candlelight that casts blurry shadows on his face looks suddenly cold and silver as moonlight. Hannibal can see the trace of sprawling blood patterns dripping down his chin.

The two nights are so inextricably merged in this moment that it feels natural when one of Will’s hands grip at his shoulder, the material of his sweater bunching. Will’s hand is on his neck next, and _that’s_ new, and then Will is leaning in, flames reflected in his pupils, his mouth closing over Hannibal’s. 

Hannibal sees stars, planets, _galaxies_ , time stretching infinitely backwards and forwards as this moment -- the soft lips and hardened edges of Will’s mouth, the warm wet drag of his tongue -- open up all their pasts and futures, the lives lived and the lives still undiscovered, a palimpsest of color and death threaded through with this new feeling: Will’s fingers grasping the bared skin of his collarbone, the inside of his bottom lip wet and sticky just above the swell of Hannibal’s chin. He reaches for Will, hands finding waist, and he hears a crash, followed by a shattering (the wine glass, Hannibal knows, but he thinks of teacups, of whole hallways torn asunder.) 

Will chuckles into Hannibal’s mouth and pulls back. Hannibal grips tighter at his waist, tight enough to mark, but keeps his face still. He drinks Will in, panting.

“What is this - an apology?” Hannibal’s voice is thick as he asks it. He wonders if Will can hear his heartbeat pounding between breaths.

“More like a ‘thank you,’” Will’s voice is unsteady, far shakier than Hannibal had anticipated. Will exhales loudly through his nose, eyes blown black. “And an ‘I’m curious.’” 

Will leans forward again. Hannibal meets him halfway, this time. Their lips come together gently, urgency and panic behind them. Hannibal can hear his internal architectures settling, dust and debris still.

As Hannibal’s mind slows and quiets, his body picks up, heart in his throat, sweat on his scalp, cock already half-hard and aching between his legs. His hands explore, one set of fingers slipping beneath Will’s top as another tentatively hovers at his hip, trailing inward until, with a nip at Will’s lip and a reactionary grunt into his mouth, he presses the heel of his hand above Will’s crotch, palm closing over the soft bulge. 

When Will only archs closer toward him in response, the smell of salt and mint growing stronger in Hannibal’s nostrils, Hannibal rubs, hands and lips and tongue moving deftly. Will’s cock stiffens and Hannibal has to break the kiss, unable to concentrate on Will’s cock and mouth at once, burying his face in Will’s neck, swollen lips pressing wet and open against his pulse point. Will is swelling beneath his palm now, his breaths coming faster and deeper, each exhale sticking over a soft moan. 

Hannibal pauses to pull Will’s soft pajama pants down, pleased to find nothing beneath, only sweat-damp hips, dark hair, and Will’s reddened cock, upright and long. Hannibal wraps his fingers around it, strokes up in slow and shallow motions, a teasing, subtle revenge. Will gets louder, vocal chords humming around each rasping breath.

Hannibal begins pumping away properly, picking up speed and pressure on every sweeping downstroke, tongue pressed against Will’s throat lapping absently, the vibrations of Will’s murmured whimpers jolting from the inside of Hannibal’s mouth down his spine, his own arousal cresting.

Whimpers turn to wails, Will’s back arching, throat pushing Hannibal’s face back. Hannibal slows, smelling his closeness.

He stops his hand entirely, grinning when Will grunts, frustrated. He flattens his tongue and runs it up the long, stubbly line of Will’s neck to his ear. He sucks on his earlobe before releasing it, hand at Will’s cock stroking up just once as he moves his lips to the center of Will’s ear.

“I want you in my mouth,” Hannibal breathes, slow, deliberate, every vowel cushioned between soft hisses. 

“Hannibal - God -” Will’s hand is curled tightly at the base of Hannibal’s neck, wet and desperate. “I don’t know if -”

Hannibal kisses the tender spot beneath his earlobe and Will loses his words.

“Don’t worry,” Hannibal whispers, lips dragging at every soft piece of skin they can reach. “I desire only to make you come. Will you let me do that?”

“God - yes - please, yes -”

Hannibal nuzzles the tip of his nose against Will’s cheek, a quiet _thank you_ , before dropping to his knees in front of him, spreading his naked thighs and gently tugging his hips forward. Shards of glass dig into his kneecaps, spilled wine soaking through the fabric of his pants. 

Unbothered, with Will spreading and panting above him, head thrown back and pajama shirt riding up to reveal the bottom of his scar, Hannibal grips the base of Will’s cock with a fist and runs his loose thickened tongue up the underside, hard, wrapping his lips around the head when he reaches it, exhaling hot before his mouth tightens on the tip. Hannibal descends an inch, throat opening as his mouth fills. 

Will moans, a choking sound followed by a garbled rush of vowels that Hannibal can only assume is meant to be his name. Pleased, Hannibal slides his mouth back up, lips back at the sticky-wet tip of Will’s cock before he’s lowering himself down again, further this time, gorging deep until his eyes sting from the mingled intrusion of it and the near-yells coming from above him, Will’s fingernails scraping hard at the back of his neck. He takes Will whole and rises again, mouth loose then tight around the tip as he inhales, sinks again, jaw and throat straining, his own cock aching beneath his pants.

“I’m gonna - Hannibal -”

Hannibal moans around Will, dipping his free hand beneath his own pants, nerves and brain lighting up as he strokes himself and bobs up-down-up-down on Will’s cock in synchronous tandem. 

Hannibal comes before Will does, quite accidentally, tears streaming down his cheeks as he spills into his own hand. Will’s fingertips are bruising on the side of his neck, the head of his cock heavy at the back of Hannibal’s tongue. 

He’s struggling to breathe now, the moves to inhale complicated with his mouth stuffed. He grunts with choking effort, driven forward only by the way Will’s moans, whimpers, and stifled shouts increase in pitch and frequency with each passing second. With a final forceful jab up and down again, Will comes, the first two syllables of Hannibal’s name spilling out of his mouth as he releases, hips bouncing, Hannibal greedily swallowing, salty tears dripping onto Will’s inner thighs as they both come down. 

Several minutes pass in breath-heavy silence before Hannibal fully takes his mouth off of Will, resting his head on Will’s thigh. Hannibal can smell the blood on his knees from kneeling on glass shards, but he feels no pain. His eyelashes are wet and he’s surprised to find himself still crying. Will’s thigh smells so sweet against his face.

“Christ,” Will says finally. His hand rests on Hannibal’s forehead, Hannibal’s blood beneath his fingernails. “That was...you’ve done that before.” 

“I’ve never enjoyed it quite as much as I did this time,” Hannibal admits with a sly grin.

Will wiggles his leg, and Hannibal raises his head. Will pulls his pants back up and moves to lay across the couch. His face is flushed, hair disheveled. He is as beautiful as ever.

“Come here,” Will says, gesturing toward the empty space before him. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but they can both fit.

“I should clean up,” Hannibal protests. His face is tear-streaked, knees bloody and wine-stained. Glass and cheap merlot seep across the floor. His semen dries inside his underwear.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Will assures him. Stubborn. 

With only some reluctance, Hannibal complies. He stretches out across the cushions, back towards Will. They’re pressed tightly against each other, Will’s arm wrapped around his chest. His breath is still uneven in Hannibal’s ear.

They lie still, bodies rising and falling in synched breaths. Hannibal memorizes it all. The taste of Will lingering on his tongue. The scratch of his stubble at the back of his neck. The ache in his jaw and the blood still falling from his knees.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, but does not say. He knows it is apparent. 

“Good night, Hannibal,” Will whispers into his ear. Hannibal feels movement behind him, hears the click of a lamp followed by darkness.

“Good night, Will,” Hannibal replies. His heart thrums.

Will is already asleep, snoring gently in his ear.

***

Everything after that remains much the same. Will does not hesitate on any more kills. They still shower together after each. Hannibal keeps his hands mostly to himself.

Sometimes now, Will will forego heading downstairs, and Hannibal will find him instead in his bed, whiskey in hand. Sometimes Will asks him to use his mouth on him again. Other times they just talk, each probing the other, the most minute details of each other’s pasts somehow endlessly fascinating. Often, Hannibal tears up, overcome with his past and his present and that indeterminate future they are forever building up to. Less often, Will will join him, or do it on his own. 

Will harbors so much forgotten pain. He’s all scar tissue, physically and otherwise, a network of memories stitched together with numbed out callouses. Hannibal works always to stimulate these hardened connecting pieces. He wants nothing inside Will to be closed off. Together they construct a shared palace of memories filled with breathing vibrant rooms. Stasis becomes the enemy.

Will’s nightmares return, everything in his brain spilling over, the walls between all those mental rooms permeable liquid. Hannibal holds him through the worst of them and does not need to ask questions. He sees all the same things in his own dreams.

Tonight, they’re sleeping together when Will jolts awake, shaking and sweating. He flips a light on and pulls his shirt over his head, sweaty fabric sticking to him. He turns to Hannibal, eyes wild with terror and something new.

Hannibal moves to shift onto his side, but is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, planting him flat on his back. Will swings a leg over Hannibal’s hip, straddling him, graceful and dangerous. Will stares down at him. His eyes are burning blue like the hottest part of a candle’s flame.

“I want you,” Will growls. His voice is rough. Hannibal can see his pulse beating erratically in his neck.

“Okay,” is all Hannibal says in response. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. This is how he loves Will most: uninhibited and coming apart at the seams. He’s magnetic, violent energy taut in his limbs.

“I want to fuck you.”

A bead of sweat drips down Will’s nose. Hannibal is as moved by it as he is by the words that accompany it.

“You can do literally anything you want to me,” Hannibal purrs. The thrill of saying it out loud courses prickly down his spine. He’s never meant anything more. Will can do anything.

Will’s eyes flicker, the hand on Hannibal’s shoulder gripping down tight. Hannibal’s eyes dart to where he’s being held down.

“May I get up to prepare some things?” Hannibal asks, careful. He watches Will with burning curiosity. 

Will considers for a moment, flush with the knowledge that he can say no. 

“Yes,” he decides on instead, lifting his hand and swinging back to his side of the bed. “As long as you’re quick.”

Hannibal moves to the bathroom, retrieving some lubricant and soap from a drawer. He strips and takes his time preparing himself, relishing the thought of Will’s eagerness and frustration growing the longer he takes. Whatever Will has in store for him, Hannibal intends to enjoy it.

Hannibal re-enters the room, clean and slippery inside, cock erect and bobbing as he walks toward the bed. Will is fully naked, hair sticking to his forehead as he strokes himself, hand moving furiously. 

“How do you want me?” Hannibal asks, hovering at the bedside. He watches keenly as Will’s hand moves, a red-pink blur.

“On your back. I want to see your face.”

Hannibal lies down, legs spread. Will’s hand stills and he moves to settle between them, hooking Hannibal’s knees against his forearms and pushing forward, bending Hannibal’s legs back against his chest. They lie still for several moments, panting with anticipatory pleasure, eyes locked. Will’s are bright and feral, Hannibal’s misty.

Will breathes in deep as Hannibal breathes, and Will pushes in.

Hannibal’s eyes click closed, radiant yellows and fluorescent blues writhing behind his eyelids in spiky patterns as Will presses further, slower and more gently than Hannibal had expected, the burn radiating up his spine and belly as his muscles cramp and loosen to accept him. Hannibal’s biting his own bottom lip hard enough to break the skin, his eyes screwed shut, one hand on Will’s back and the other between his legs, just holding himself, too overwhelmed by Will’s cock driving into him to add any new friction.

When Will is as far in as he can go, the skin of his hips brushing Hannibal’s ass, his full body droops down, face nuzzled against Hannibal’s.

“Fuck,” Will groans. “You’re so - fuck -”

Hannibal can’t bring himself to look. His thighs and arms are trembling, back curved, hole spasming around Will. Hannibal feels split open, on obscene display, every tremble, gasp, and pinch of his hole a debauched reveal.

Will lies over and inside him, hard and unrelenting, hips still, the only movement coming from the frenzied rise and fall of his chest against Hannibal’s.

“Open your eyes,” Will gasps, a whimper punctuating the demand.

Hannibal readies himself, the burn inside subsiding, and does as Will asks. He feels wetness trickle down the creases of his eyes and isn’t sure if they’re his own tears, Will’s, or both. Will’s eyes are wet, mouth hanging open, and he’s looking down at Hannibal with a reverence that Hannibal hopes to never forget. Hannibal trails his hand up Will’s back over a shoulder blade, past his neck and over the crown of his head until he’s finally at his face, resting a gentle palm there, sweat, tears, stubble and taut scar a singing litany of textures beneath his hand. 

“You are without equal,” Hannibal breathes, head ringing with emotion like bells, clear and reverberating.

“Fuck,” Will exhales. 

Will leans forward and kisses Hannibal’s bottom lip, then the top, snaking his tongue inside as his hips draw back and his cock slides slowly out, newfound emptiness blooming up Hannibal’s body. Will plunges back in with a force that makes Hannibal’s eyes sting afresh, light and color returning as he throws his head back, eyes screwed shut, gripping Will’s shoulder as his other hand tightens around his cock. 

Will repeats the motion, half-out then full-in again, one time, two times, three times, grunting with exertion, picking up speed and pressure with each thrust, Hannibal stinging everywhere Will’s cock touches and tingling with sensitivity everywhere else, every nerve ending and follicle on his body alight. Little moans and whimpers of pleasure fill the room and fill his head as Will fills him with tongue and cock elsewhere. 

Hannibal’s jerking himself now, breaking Will’s kiss to throw his head back again, neck bared, legs spreading, Will inching deeper in. Hannibal tilts his hips just slightly and Will brushes the spot he’s been reaching for, then brushes it again, harder this time, and Hannibal is undone, wailing as if in the throes of death, bracing down, then opening, more and more, so wide he could tear- 

Will slams in roughly one final time and comes, surprising Hannibal, gasping as his body tenses, tenses, tenses, then goes still, arms giving out as he collapses on top of Hannibal, light and sweat-drenched, still gulping for air.

Hannibal is moving to finish himself off when Will gets up, slides down, and takes his cock into his mouth with no warning, messy but determined, mouth wrapped loosely around the head and dropping to take more in, a warm wet squeeze sliding downwards, saliva trickling with him.

Hannibal slides his eyes open, finds Will, mouth red and straining around the girth of Hannibal’s cock, several inches of its base still visible below him. His lashes are wet and clinging to his face as he breathes hard through his nose, ticking up then sliding down deeper, cheeks hollow, and Hannibal comes, crying out Will’s name, hand scratching at the top of his head, fingers curling in his hair, the world as he knows it shifting and stretching out beneath him.

Hannibal is still regrounding himself when Will crawls back up, plopping down beside him, head dropping heavily on Hannibal’s chest. They breathe, dissonant at first until each instinctively syncs to the other, heart rates slowing. Hannibal wraps an arm around Will, worshipful. He feels whole.

Body yearning for sleep, Hannibal is considering reaching just beyond Will to flip the light off when Will laughs, soft and breathless.

“What?” Hannibal asks, already smiling.

“I was just thinking that I knew you’d find a way to get me inside you one way or the other,” Will rubs at the scar on his forehead, and Hannibal remembers his nearly-consumed brain, the smell of butter and thyme.

“This was better,” Hannibal replies. He moves to feel the scar, too, grateful (not for the first time) for its existence, for the fact that the bone saw never got irreparably deep.

“Yes,” Will agrees.

Hannibal lays his lips at the scar’s edge and stretches to turn the lamp off.

He falls asleep in seconds, Will curled at his side.

***

They kill again soon after. Will’s choice surprises Hannibal. Will had refined Hannibal’s originary code of ethics: he would only hunt those who were hunters themselves. He held himself with the fragile, deluded sense of justice of a storybook vigilante. Hannibal found it endearing, so he entertained it. He’d always known it would crack one day, one way or another.

Sure enough, tonight, Will had foregone his usual, careful selection process. They’d been walking home from dinner, tipsy on some decent wine for once, when a man far drunker than they had passed by, hurled some insults, some slurs - petty, really. Not even interesting enough to be considered rude.

Will had stiffened, though, and given Hannibal the sharp-eyed tight-mouthed look that has become their hunting signal. Hannibal had nodded, and they’d followed him. 

It’d been particularly gruesome. Hannibal had let Will do much of the work, and he’d picked it up admirably. Slashes upon slashes, each itself drawing almost enough blood to kill. By the time he’d finished, the mutilation had been so severe that Hannibal hadn’t even bothered trying to salvage any of the meat. 

Will’s grinning, blood-drenched triumph had faded on the walk home. He’d used the man’s shower to clean himself off. He had not invited Hannibal to join him.

Home now, Hannibal waits for Will in their living room. Will had headed quickly upstairs upon arrival with no explanation. A sense of doom weighs heavy in Hannibal’s ligaments, realized when Will descends from upstairs several minutes later, newly dressed with his hair slicked back and a travel bag in his hand.

“I’m leaving,” he says, stating the obvious. His voice is flat and even. Hannibal wonders how many of these deadened announcements of separation he’ll have to store away inside before one or both of them is dead.

A hell of grief opens up within him. He cannot speak.

Will drops his bag and walks towards him, stopping only when his face is centimeters away. His eyes, soft and wet, betray what his voice did not. Hannibal finds no comfort in his pain. 

Will wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck. He clings to him tightly, sniffling in his ear. Hannibal pulls Will closer still with two arms around his middle. It’s cruel to think that this could be the last time he gets to touch him. He thinks of the three years before The Dragon, all that loneliness and deep-seated fear. His grief grows deeper.

“Are you angry I did not stop you?” Hannibal finds it in himself to ask, chest tight. He is trying to understand. 

Will pulls away, leaving a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. The touch is so gentle that Hannibal wants to shake it off. 

“No,” Will offers unambiguously. “I’m not angry. I’m not regretful. I feel good.”

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, questioning. Will smiles sadly.

“I slaughtered a man tonight, an innocent man, and I feel good. That’s why I have to leave.”

“He wasn’t entirely innocent,” Hannibal offers weakly. He knows what Will means, of course.

“He was innocent enough.” _Stubborn_. 

Hannibal nods, and drops Will’s gaze. It is too much to look at him.

“I will miss you,” Hannibal manages finally, after several minutes of solemn silence. His voice is uneven. He’s not sure why he says it, or what he means by it, beyond the superficial. 

“I don’t want you to look for me,” Will replies, firm but not unkind. 

Hannibal nods again, eyes still downcast. 

“This isn’t goodbye,” Will assures him. He leans in and kisses Hannibal softly on the cheek. He lingers, breathing him in. 

“No?” Hannibal asks, nuzzling against Will’s mouth. 

“How can it be? I haven’t gotten _you_ inside me yet.” 

Hannibal laughs at that, despite himself. 

“In a way, you have,” he can’t help but retaliate, the memory of Will’s lips stretched tight around his cock vivid in his head.

Will laughs, too, nose still pressed on Hannibal’s cheek, and Hannibal is grateful for these small mercies. There had been none last time. 

Will pulls back just enough to run his fingertips down Hannibal’s face, still smiling. With a small nod, and a soft squeeze at his shoulder, Will turns and leaves, picking up his bag on the way. 

Hannibal watches him go, and listens to the echo of the front door closing shut. It’s difficult to believe that this will be the last time Hannibal sees him in this room, in this place. He’d had no suspicion when he woke up this morning, Will beside him, that he’d be ending the night alone, a hole running through the middle of him. 

He stands alone for a long time, savoring the lingering softness of Will’s fingertips on his cheek, committing everything to memory. His mind is quiet, eerily so. 

Rubbing his hands together, Hannibal walks toward the kitchen. He picks out the most inoffensive bottle of wine he can locate (one he’d bought and snuck in while Will had been distracted elsewhere.) He pops the cork, sniffs deep, and pours himself a glass. 

He feels partial, like a memory himself. He realizes on some level that he cannot stay here. Will has been gone for all of fifteen minutes and already it’s a relic of the past. 

He could not go looking for Will. Will will look for him, when he is ready. He wonders what form Will will return to him in, which stages of his ever-deferred transformation are next. He warms at the thought of this promised future Will, with new scars, new memories. New rooms in his palace. Perhaps Hannibal will be able to catch glimpses of him there, if nowhere else. 

Hannibal swirls the wine glass in his hand. He sips, and he waits. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lana Del Rey's "Burnt Norton (Interlude)," which is itself citing T.S. Eliot's poem of the same name.


End file.
